


Saving Him

by dragonwriter24cmf



Series: Mycroft's Rescue [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Brother Feels, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, Mycroft Whump, POV Sherlock Holmes, Protective Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:21:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22409359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonwriter24cmf/pseuds/dragonwriter24cmf
Summary: Mycroft's been kidnapped. We know what happened to him from his point of view, but what was Sherlock doing? How did he react when his brother went missing? Companion piece to 'Safe with Him'
Series: Mycroft's Rescue [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612684
Comments: 5
Kudos: 68





	1. The Detective

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters belong to the creators of Sherlock.

**Saving Him**

He never knows what to expect when he’s contacted by Mycroft, or Mycroft’s mysterious assistant. Boring government cases, threats, an invitation to lunch...it’s always something, usually more of a bother than he wants to deal with. Usually boring, with a side order of Mycroftian sarcasm.

Of all the scenarios he anticipates, however, none of them involve Mycroft’s assistant showing up on his doorstep and saying the words “Mycroft Holmes has disappeared.”

Disappeared. The emergency transponders his brother carries at all times, embedded into different points of his body, are no longer functional and are presumed to have been removed. By all accounts this also means his brother has been taken, by persons unknown.

His first response is incredulous denial. Mycroft is too smart to get kidnapped. Not even Eurus tried to take Mycroft. Mycroft is intelligent and he works a desk job, not taking the risks that Sherlock and John do in their own work. He works in an office, with a private car and security.

He says the only thing he can think of to say. “Details.”

“Mr. Holmes ordered his car brought round approximately three hours ago. Twenty minutes ago his emergency transponders went offline, triggering the emergency signal. It is presumed they’ve been removed. I’ve confirmed that Mr. Holmes did not arrive at his residence, which was his intended destination when he left his office.” Brown eyes meet his own. “Mr. Holmes was very clear. In the event of his disappearance, however it occurred, I was to contact you and retain your services to locate him. All expenses are authorized, and whatever resources you need will be provided for you.”

His first response is a thrill of glee. Access to the CCTV network. Access to Mycroft’s computer. The secrets he could uncover…

And of course, that’s when John comes trooping in, awkwardly pushing Rosamund’s stroller, grocery bag slung over one arm from the 24 hour Tescos down the street. He spots the assistant and stops. “What’s going on?”

“Mycroft has disappeared. Most likely kidnapped, though self-extraction is a possibility.” The words crash into him, and the glee disappears.

Mycroft has disappeared. In the event that this is not some sort of absurd test, someone has got the better of his brother. That means meticulous planning, for nothing else could penetrate the safeguards that his brother surrounds himself with.

His first thought is Eurus. She is certainly intelligent enough, if anyone is. But why would she bother? She knows she has only to contact them by phone or other message. And since he remembered her existence, he’s visited her frequently. He knows Mycroft has as well.

Worth checking into, in case she is involved for some obscure reason. But his instinct says that this is not Eurus’s work. First rule of deduction, however, is to eliminate the obvious. “Eurus?”

“Mr. Holmes was at Sherrinford two weeks ago. There was no sign of aggression or abnormal activity.”

“I need a chopper.” Eurus is clever enough not to broadcast her intentions, but he thinks she’ll answer if he asks directly.

“It will be ready in half an hour.” The assistant is already typing.

John has put down the groceries. “What’s the plan?”

“I will visit my sister. And then….CCTV footage. I’ll need all that’s available. And details of where the transponders went offline. Detailed information on Mycroft’s schedule for the day, and for the next two. Any serious business or potential threats he was working on.”

“It’ll be ready by the time you return. I’ll remain here and coordinate with Dr. Watson.” The assistant is still typing away. “Chopper is fueling. I’ll have the car take you round.”

“No need. Driver might be compromised. I’ll have Mrs. Hudson take me.” He’s already winding his scarf around his throat.

Mrs. Hudson is more than willing to take him, once she hears the reason for his request. She’s never been too fond of Mycroft but she understands family, and she’s smart enough to know that, despite their acrimonious relationship, the brothers do care about each other. Within 10 minutes they’re on their way, and within 30, he’s in the air.

Eurus has little information to give him. As expected, she isn’t involved. “Why should I? I don’t need to kidnap Mycroft.” He agrees to keep her informed and takes his leave, followed by the slow, contemplative strains of her violin.

Back at Baker Street, John’s laptop has been joined by one with considerably more processing power, and encryption. As promised, the CCTV footage is loaded, starting with a shot of Mycroft entering his vehicle. Or what looks to be his vehicle from casual inspection.

He tilts his head at the assistant, Anthea – he supposes it would be easier to call her by some name – and asks for confirmation. “This is his car? Correct license plate, make and model?”

“Yes. Mr. Holmes would not have entered it otherwise.” She seems certain, and she is likely correct. Mycroft is careful like that, more so than he himself is.

That established, he sets himself to following the car on the CCTV footage.

First oddity: The car remains at the curb for several minutes after Mycroft enters. At least five. There is not enough traffic to warrant the delay on that street, which makes the pause suspicious. No one else enters the vehicle beyond the driver.

Conclusion: The delay was most likely to facilitate some method of incapacitating Mycroft. The abductors, whoever they are, are careful, and seemingly well aware of Mycroft’s intelligence.

Through the cameras, he follows the car as it pulls out into the streets. He follows it through traffic, each twist and turn, carefully noting the route. It’s not easy, but he doesn’t expect it to be. He’s already been told that roughly two hours and forty minutes passed between Mycroft’s calling the car and the time his transponders went offline.

At least an hour of that is taken in circuitous driving, obviously meant to throw any potential followers off the trail. To the casual eye, it almost looks like Mycroft was going round to the shops, and he has no doubt that’s what any watchers were meant to assume.

Finally, the car drives off the main roads, and out of the range of CCTV footage. He marks the road, the possible routes, and leaves Baker Street, heading for the last camera location. He goes on foot, not wanting any potential contamination of tire tracks, beyond what has already occurred. The road the car disappeared on is not well traveled, but far from deserted. He suspects, based on the impressions, that at least half a dozen people use the road regularly.

Tracking the car on foot is a tedious process. The driver, whoever he might be, is cautious. There are no convenient impacts or paint transfers. Only tire treads, and those muddled by other vehicles, and often obscured by asphalt and cobbles. He is reduced to asking questions, of all the absurd things, and of course no one has any information he considers useful, aside from one or two individuals who state that they ‘might ‘ave seen a posh car like that’. Nonetheless, he asks, because what else can he do? He’s already received notice from Anthea that the transponders were...unhelpful. Too vague in their details. Their main purpose is to monitor Mycroft’s welfare, not his location. Usually his cell phone does that. And his cell phone was disposed of during the drive, broken beyond repair.

He returns to Baker Street when it becomes too dark to continue, and spends the rest of the night watching the CCTV to see if there is any sign of Mycroft’s car returning along any of the possible routes. There isn’t.

Conclusion: Either the kidnappers have remained in the primary location to which they removed Mycroft, or they used an alternative means of transport to reach a secondary location.

This leads to further tedium, as he is forced to go back and research the vehicles of all the people in the general area, in order to dismiss their automobiles from consideration.

He spends the next day scouring the neighborhood, one house at a time. Finally, near evening, he finds an abandoned home, owned but clearly not lived in. Mycroft’s car is in the carport (he has no compunction breaking and entering, not now) under a tarp.

Except that it isn’t Mycroft’s car. It looks like Mycroft’s car, and it has the correct license plates, but the interior is wrong in ways that only a Holmes would notice, with the exception of the heavy tinted glass that separates driver and passenger.

Clever. A trap that is expertly camouflaged. Mycroft would of course notice the differences, but not until he is inside. And by then, the trap would have been sprung.

A careful sniff reveals traces of nitrous, doubtless what was used to knock Mycroft out. He himself could have resisted such, but Mycroft doesn’t have his chemical tolerances.

He also finds the scuff marks of Mycroft’s shoes, and his brother’s fingerprints around the lock, where he likely tried to escape. But the lock is controlled by a mechanism in front, and the glass is bulletproof. Even he would have trouble escaping, and he is in better condition than his elder brother.

Now he has more questions. What happened to the original car that Mycroft should have taken, and to the driver? Was the driver a traitor or collateral damage? And where is his brother? And how did his abductors leave this residence for wherever they have gone to ground?

He suspects a second vehicle, knowing that his brother, conscious or not, would be a chore to move otherwise. Mycroft’s height and weight make him an awkward captive to shift for any distance, unless his captors possess similar builds.

He returns to Baker Street to begin cross-referencing vehicles and CCTV footage. On a second thought, he also taps the Scotland Yard reports of recent auto thefts. Just in case. As cautious as Mycroft’s kidnappers are being, he doubts that they would make such a mistake, but he cannot afford to overlook any angle. Not now.

He doesn’t bother sleeping that night either. John eventually stops trying to convince him to leave the computer, and settles for pouring out coffee on a regular basis and stuffing some sort of food (he doesn’t bother noticing what it actually is) into his hand every now and then, watching until he eats it. 

He’s narrowed down the vehicles to five when he finally has to stand and stretch. The world goes gray around the edges. John catches him and shoves him into the sofa as the gray turns to black. 

He wakes two hours later, furious with his own lapse. Still, his cognitive function has marginally improved as a result of his impromptu unconsciousness.

Anthea comes to tell him they’ve located the driver, who was apparently knocked unconscious and deposited in a hospital. A blow to the head from behind. Mycroft’s original car has also been located, in a public parking facility with the plates swapped.

Clever. Struck from behind means the driver is unlikely to have seen his assailants, much less recognized them. Checked into a hospital ensures he will be in treatment for his injury instead of reporting it to his boss, might even assume that his boss already knows. And moving the car ensures no one will find it’s presence in the Pall Mall motorcade suspicious, just as swapping the plates not only gives their car camouflage, but ensures that no one will immediately connect the car left behind with Mycroft. And the car they did have turns out to be a rental from a place that caters to rich American tourists who want to ‘party in the London scene’. Rented for over a week so that it has not yet been reported missing. Very clever.

These criminals (he has no doubt there’s more than one) aren’t up to Moriarty’s standard, but they’re clever enough that he might appreciate the challenge, if they hadn’t taken his brother.

Contrary to popular belief, he and Mycroft don’t hate each other. They simply have the complicated relationship that comes from a combination of sibling rivalry, high intellect, and often differing opinions. They like to argue with each other because it keeps them both sharp, and because there are very few who can give them a stimulating argument otherwise.

Mycroft said once that losing him would break his heart. He’s discovered since that he has similar sentiments about his brother. He’s just never been afraid that it would happen, save for the one incident at Sherrinford. And now.

He returns to the CCTV footage, and to his notes. Cross-referencing everything takes time, even for him.

There’s no way to narrow down the five cars to one, not without a closer inspection of the crime scene where the first car was recovered. Night will not provide adequate lighting, so he settles in to wait for dawn and passes time by analyzing the scant records for the house and the car. The house is technically in ownership of a person who passed away some months prior, and the will is still being processed, meaning that records of it’s particular ownership now are impossible to discover. Half a dozen people might have a claim, and none of them have an obvious tie to the government, or Mycroft.

The car was rented under an obvious pseudonym, so generic that even ‘John Smith’ might be easier to track.

He’s busy wading through information when Lestrade snaps the door open and trudges in, hair wild and a three-day stubble on his chin. “Oi. Why aren’t you picking up your phone? I’ve got a case. Locked room homicide...”

“Not interested.” He cuts the Inspector off before he can go further. Another time he might enjoy a locked-room case, but he has other things to think about.

Lestrade blinks. “Not...but it’s a locked room! You always want to look at those. I’ve been working for two days...”

“And I have things of greater interest and more importance to be getting on with. If your group of idiots can’t manage this one on your own with all the previous demonstrations I’ve given you, then kindly lock back up and it will wait until I can be bothered.”

John appears at that moment from the spare room where Rosamund is sleeping. “Lestrade. Didn’t know you were coming. Sherlock finally call you?”

Lestrade blinks at the two of them, a fact he only notices because he’s waiting for the Inspector to leave so he can get back to his notes. “Call me? For what?”

John sighs. “Of course he didn’t.” He breathes through his nose a few times. “Sherlock’s brother went missing about...three days ago? He’s been working on that ever since. Can’t get him to sleep, barely get him to eat.”

Lestrade frowns. “Missing? And you didn’t file a report, because...”

“Because it is Mycroft. And because his abductors are extremely clever.” He turns back to his computer, trusting John to take over the explanations, after which he fully expects Lestrade to get the message and leave him alone.

From the murmuring conversation he barely hears and pays no attention to, John does indeed explain. But Lestrade doesn’t immediately leave. Instead, he tromps over and taps his shoulder, waiting for his terse “What now?”

“Locked room will keep. I get why you want to keep the Yard out of it but...you need anything, you give a shout. All right? Back-up, an ambulance, whatever you need.”

It takes less than a second of thought to figure out that the fastest way to get Lestrade to leave is to agree. “Fine.”

Lestrade leaves, and he goes back to his work.

The next morning he leaves the flat as the sun comes up, and is at the abandoned house within an hour. He doesn’t bother with a disguise, knowing that if anyone is watching it’s too late for that. Besides, if Mycroft has been moved, it is likely that no one will care that he has found the first site.

Inside he finds a used syringe (probably more drugs to keep Mycroft unconscious), the bloody and broken transponders, a ceramic tooth cap with a hollow inside (probably a last ditch knockout or suicide pill) and Mycroft’s shoes and socks.

The inference is clear. They’ve taken away his emergency protections and communications, and made it as difficult as possible for him to escape. He himself would have little problem running the length of London barefoot (he’s done similar things), but Mycroft...Mycroft doesn’t even get on a treadmill without shoes on.

The tooth proves to be filled with a drug that will induce a coma. Clever and very Mycroftian.

Careful examination of the house and the carport reveals the faint tracks of another set of wheels, imprinted in mud and very nearly scraped away. He does the measurements, then sets out to find out which of the cars on his short list would have the same basic wheel-base and tread.

The comparison work is tedious, but he finally has enough information to make a good solid deduction about which car carried away his brother.

Again, the name the car is registered to is too generic to track. He’s fairly certain that, barring pseudonym usage, at least one of Mycroft’s abductors has been brought in solely because of his name. Another, he thinks, must have some medical training. The use of drugs and the removal of Mycroft’s transponders tells him that. A non-professional would likely have missed the tooth, and left behind more blood. The whole thing is too well done to be a single person operation. Not even Jim Moriarty at the top of his game could manage such a smooth abduction of a person such as Mycroft without assistance.

He goes back to the CCTV footage. The car he suspects of carrying his brother appears once, very briefly, before disappearing into the old factory and warehouse district.

This is not a place where cameras are prominent. And most of the ones that have been installed have also been broken or otherwise disabled. This is where the underworld and the poor and lost come. A hundred different buildings, and a thousand different places to hide. A perfect place to take a prisoner.

He summons his Irregulars (Bill Wiggins is invaluable in such a situation). John forces him to sleep for two more hours, which turns into three, packs him a bag full of cheap food and water that both of them know he will probably give away, then helps him get into a disguise. They agree to a meeting point near the clinic John works at once a day, and phone texts otherwise, and then he takes to the streets.

He hunts. Up and down, eyes alert and every sense straining for any clue. He takes reports from the Irregulars, who can go places he can’t and cover ground more quickly. He gets stimulants from Wiggins in exchange for food, sleeps when he is forced to (even Wiggins has limits on how long he’ll be his supplier), eats when he has to, and then keeps going, steadily eliminating one block after another.

Days and nights bleed together. He knows he stinks, and he needs a shave and a shower, but that’s all to the good. When he finds the place (he is determined that he will) his natural condition will provide most of the disguise he needs. In this part of town, one more beggar in a doorway is hardly noticeable.

He’s just reviving from his third or fourth trip to unconsciousness when Wiggins arrives and says he thinks they have a lead. At the very least, one of the Irregulars has spotted the car he told them to look for.

He follows his informant, stumbling and munching blearily on something that he’ll never be able to remember later, gagging down some water.

All his exhaustion vanishes, however, when Wiggins stops and points him to a low, nondescript building with a car parked on one side.

He studies the set-up. No visible watchers. Smart. Very smart. Visible security would only make the locals curious. He turns up his collar, smears a little more dirt on his face, and shambles over.

He stumbles into the car, wobbling like a druggie on a binge (he’s had plenty of practice, he knows how to act the part even when perfectly sober). The car is plain, no sign of anything, and for a moment he finds himself unsure. Until he spies something, stuffed under the seat.

An umbrella. And, he knows without a doubt, Mycroft’s umbrella. Positioned so that a causal passerby might think it was being stored for a rainy day. But the handle is unmistakable to his eyes, the wear patterns of Mycroft’s grip (he does love to twirl the handle, there are smooth marks there) in glaring evidence.

That’s as far as he gets before a man comes out of the building. “Hey! What are you doing with my car?”

“Nothin’. Sorry sir.” He slurs his words, waves his hand and stumbles away in perfect imitation of a drugged and apologetic vagrant. The man watches him with suspicious eyes until he turns the corner.

Wiggins is there, waiting in a doorway. “Well Shezza?”

“He is nearby. It only remains to be seen if the building we need is that one...” He indicates the one the man exited. “...or one of the others nearby.”

“Right. We’ll get on that. Best you don’t get yourself seen again. Might recognize you, even all rough as you are.” Wiggins is the practical sort.

“Fine. Do keep up surveillance, and keep me informed. I shall make necessary arrangements.” In theory, he could rescue his brother alone, but he’s not going to take the risk. If Mycroft is still alive, he’s not going to let a mistake made in arrogance get his brother killed now.

He makes his way to John’s clinic and tromps inside. He waits in the office until John has a break, then holds a quick conference. Post conference, a quick shower and a change of clothes makes him recognizable and at least marginally presentable. After that, he begins making calls.

Lestrade, for a squad of Scotland Yard’s best. Undercover work experience preferred, since at least some of them will need to be undercover as homeless in order to perform the initial infiltration.

Anthea and Lady Smallwood, in case Scotland Yard proves reluctant.

Molly Hooper, because she is one of the two medical professionals he knows and trusts with his brother. John is the other, and he has already stated his intention of going back with him.

Making arrangements is time consuming, but that’s all well and good. It gives his Irregulars time to confirm which building Mycroft is in. Not that any of the Irregulars see Mycroft. But they do spot several men entering and leaving the same building at various times, one of them carrying what looks like medical supplies. And most of them trading off driving the car. It’s a good bet that his deductions are correct.

He insists on preparing for the rescue operation near John’s clinic. Not at the clinic, that might be too suspicious. But not close to their target either.

Six Scotland Yarders (Lestrade is too recognizable, so he isn’t one of them) are dressed out in homeless vagrant attire, assisted by Wiggins and another of the Irregulars. He insists on that, knowing that Wiggins has an eye for details (when he’s not drugged out of his mind). The Yard detectives assigned to the task grumble about the dirt and smoke fumes they’re subjected to, but they listen.

Finally, they’re ready. Sherlock and the Irregulars lead the advance team, plus John and Lestrade, to a known homeless squat a few doors down. They trickle in in ones and twos, until they are assembled. From there, Sherlock texts in. Operation Rescue is a go.

Two Yarders stagger down the road. Their appearance is that of brothers, in theory fallen on hard times. The two of them stumble into the doorway and hunker down, a perfect image of vagrants looking to get out of the wind.

Two minutes later, the door opens. A man steps out, clearly ready to run them off.

He doesn’t get a word out before he’s dropped by the two men.

Twenty minutes and another guard later, the coast is deemed clear, and Scotland Yard moves in. First the ones in disguise, then the rest, including Lestrade.

For all their idiocy in deductions, Sherlock has to admit that in this, Scotland Yard is quite efficient. In under an hour, the building is swept, the inhabitants incapacitated, and the area secured. Lestrade comes out to give him the all clear, calling for police wagons as he does so. He sends off a quick text to Anthea and Lady Smallwood, as well as Molly, then strides into the building, John at his heels.

The place is all gray concrete and ugly pipes, a dismal place. But also so nondescript that it makes an excellent hiding place. Eight men are on the premises. One room is clearly meant for habitation, one room is a rough kitchen (probably used to be a factory break room). He finds drugs of various kinds, already being sorted through and processed, in one room. And, at the very end of the corridor, a locked room.

“Figured your skills would be better for that than ours.” Lestrade mutters the words over his shoulder, then goes about the business of securing other parts of the scene.

He digs out his lock-picks and goes to work. The lock is new, and complicated, but not beyond his skill. Less than five minutes later it clicks free. He pockets the tools and pushes the door open.

The interior is pitch-black. Even the light from the corridor barely makes a dent in the gloom. Still, his sharp ears catch the sound of breathing that is not his own or John's. He fumbles at the wall, finds a light switch, and flips it.

The room is bare, save for an ugly looking metal chair in the center. And there…

Mycroft. Chained to the chair, IV in his arm, naked and squinting. There is clear pain on his face, and the reason why is easy to deduce.

However long he has been sitting in the dark, Mycroft’s eyes are sensitive. He moves to interpose his body between his brother and the light, and Mycroft’s face relaxes.

Mycroft’s condition is...deplorable is the best word he can find, though appalling might also apply. Nakedness aside, his brother’s body is a patchwork of wounds. Bruises, cuts, burns. His nails, fingers and toes, are missing. The smell is beyond description, and he can see the remains of urine and feces under his brother’s legs. Only his face is relatively unmarked, save for small puncture wounds. And in his ears….

He reaches out and removes a set of earplugs. Not only did his captors render Mycroft blind, but also deaf. He looks his brother in the eyes. “Can you hear me?”

A stiff nod is his only answer, though Mycroft looks as if he wants to speak. He takes a closer look at the puncture marks that adorn his brother’s face. “John.”

John examines his brother’s face. “Looks like….dunno, bit like the kind of injections they do for local anesthetic in facial surgery.” Mycroft gives another stilted nod, and John frowns. “You’ll have to wait for it to wear off then. Don’t try to talk too much until it does.”

Localized anesthetic in the face. Earplugs. A dark room. He doesn’t like the picture that is developing. He digs out his lock-picks again, focusing his attention on the chains and manacles that wind about his brother, securing him to the metal chair. “Check for other injections.”

John gives his brother a cursory examination, stepping out of his way as needed. “Well, there’s the IV, that’s obvious enough.” He pulls it loose of Mycroft’s arm and shuts off the drip with practiced ease. “Dunno what’s in it, but we’ll find out. Other injections sites here...” He indicates Mycroft’s neck and other arm, which Sherlock already noticed. “And...hang on...back of his neck here...looks like...”

John stops, then comes back around and presses a hand firmly into Mycroft’s arm. “Can you feel that?”

Mycroft makes no response, but in his eyes is a clear denial. The last piece clicks into place, confirming his earlier supposition.

No feeling. No sight. No sound. And the facial injections would numb tongue and nasal passages, removing taste and smell as well. Sensory deprivation.

And the torture...based on the varying stages of both needle marks and wounds, the pattern is clear to him. Chemically induced sensory deprivation, followed by torture as the drugs wear off. The combination...he would not want to be subjected to it, and cannot imagine how Mycroft must have suffered.

John continues speaking, oblivious to his realizations. “Full body epidural would be my guess. God knows when that will wear off.” He sighs. “Really not good Sherlock.”

He already knows that. “They were subjecting my brother to torture and sensory deprivation, John. Not good does not begin to cover it.” He begins unwinding the chains from his brother’s battered body. “Please find me some water.”

John leaves without a word, and he continues his task of freeing his brother, cataloging the injuries as he goes. Friction marks from the manacles, bruises from the chains on top of other bruises. Burns made by hot objects, likely a hot iron, and flash burns that indicate his brother was subjected to electroshock torture at some point. Swollen limbs suggest broken bones.

John returns with two water bottles. He pries one open, then holds it up to Mycroft’s lips, seeing the chapping that indicates some level of dehydration. Mycroft tips his head back, just a little, and swallows, letting the water run down his throat.

John offers up a bottle of colored liquids, one of those sports drinks that are supposed to provide electrolytes and all that. He offers this to Mycroft as well, and is not surprised when his brother latches on to it like a starving child. There are signs of weight loss on Mycroft’s frame, and he’s willing to bet that part of the torment inflicted on his brother was a lack of food.

John pulls out some rags, tilting his head in a clear indication. He takes them, pours some water over them, and offers them to Mycroft. His brother does not move, but his eyes beg for aid, and the relief that fills them when he runs the damp rag over his brother’s arm is almost palpable.

John rises and goes to shut the door. Mycroft tenses at once, panic in his eyes. John sees, and hastens to reassure him. “Sherlock brought most of Scotland Yard here, once he found you. Didn’t figure you’d want them walking in on you...like this I mean.”

Mycroft relaxes a bit. He and John go back to wiping away what blood and dirt they can reach. They don’t move him, leaving that for later.

They’ve just about finished when a hoarse, cracking voice speaks. “Sherlock.”

He looks up. Mycroft is staring at him. “Mycroft?” He reaches up to touch his brother’s jaw, and feels Mycroft react. “The Novocaine is wearing off?” He’s assumed Novocaine, as it would be the cheapest and easiest local anesthetic to acquire.

“Yes.” Mycroft looks about ready to pass out, and his voice is a wrecked shadow of it’s usual tone.

John looks up from his examination of Mycroft’s wounds, and frowns. “Sherlock, he needs a hospital. I can’t treat all this. Not with the supplies I have.”

He suspected as much from the minute he saw the broken bones. John is a gifted doctor, but he hs limits. Add to that possible drug overdoses, dehydration, malnutrition...this is far beyond John’s regular scope of care. And that doesn’t even address the possible complications of the torture Mycroft has suffered.

So then...they need to transport his brother. But even ignoring the matter of height and weight…he glances at Mycroft’s swollen limbs. “Epidural aside, I assume you have broken bones?”

“Yes. Hands. Feet. Shins.” The words are delivered in short, panting bursts, through chapped lips and a swollen tongue. Mycroft has turned near gray and he notes signs of exhaustion, as well as dehydration and severe abuse.

“You can’t walk then.” He could call for a gurney, for the Scotland Yard contingent, but he hesitates. John was right when he closed the door. It would not do for the goldfish, as Mycroft calls them, to see his brother in this state. Mycroft’s dignity is a carefully guarded thing, and is already damaged enough. And, despite the illogical fact of it, he does not wish to leave his brother alone. Having just recovered him, he will take no chances of Mycroft being subjected to further harm or unnecessary scrutiny. “John, I shall need your assistance.”

“My...Sherlock, I think there’s a bit of a height difference here...” John gestures between their two heights, noting the several inch disparity.

“I am aware. I was referring to your medical expertise.” His mind has already run through the options. He removes his coat and rolls up his sleeves. “A shot of adrenaline I think.”

John stares at him. “Adrenaline? Sherlock...we’ve no idea what he’s been given...”

“Not for Mycroft.” He gives John a look, tilting his head at his own arm in clear indication of what he wants.

He could lift Mycroft without it, but he’s not sure he could carry him the whole way. Besides, Mycroft is not the only one who is weary. Even the stimulants and short naps have done him little good in the last few days.

John protests, of course. “Sherlock...you’ve been up for days already. You really shouldn’t...”

He cuts John off with a quick use of his name. “Do you see any better options?”

Another man might suggest going for the gurney, or calling in some of the Scotland Yard personnel to help. But John, besides being a doctor, is the closest thing to an expert on Holmes behaviors that exists. He watches as John’s gaze flicks to Mycroft, to the door, back to Mycroft. Then his expression tightens. “Fine. But I’ve got conditions.” He’s already rummaging in his bag for the required syringe.

“And they are?”

John pulls the syringe free. “I’m only giving you this one. And when you crash, I want you resting. Both of you.”

As if Mycroft is in any condition to do anything else. It’s rather amazing that his brother is still conscious at this point. “Fair enough I suppose.” It’s not like he’ll need to stay awake after this. With Mycroft found and the kidnappers in custody, he can afford some rest to bring his mental facilities back up to peak condition, even if he finds sleep boring.

John isn’t finished. “And you’ll follow my orders, or those of your attending doctor. No trying to get around them.” John’s glare splits between both himself and Mycroft. “I mean both of you. I expect you’re both the same like that. Stubborn wankers.”

He and Mycroft share a bemused look, though Mycroft looks slightly rebellious. He sighs and answers for both of them. “I cannot promise for Mycroft, but I shall do my best, barring an emergency.”

John sighs again. “Best I’ll get I suppose. But don’t think I won’t tell Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.” He glances at Mycroft. “And your assistant.”

“As you like. Now if you would please get on with it, I should like to be gone from here.” He wants away from this place, from the smell and the site of his brother’s torture. Away from the metal chair and the chains and the gray concrete room that has been his brother’s prison while he was so abused and humiliated. 

John delivers the injection, and moments later a surge of energy floods through him. His heart beats faster, his lungs pull in more air, every nerve seems alive and tingling. He flexes his hands, noting that John has avoided giving him enough to cause tremors, which is good.

Once he is sure of his control, he reaches out and gently moves Mycroft’s hands from the chair arms to his lap. Then he folds his discarded coat around his brother’s body and lifts him from the chair, one hand behind his shoulders, the other behind his knees. He ignores the sticky sound that comes from the chair where Mycroft’s bodily fluids have stuck him to it. He likewise ignores the feel of said fluids and filth on his arms. They are not important, and in his time experimenting at St. Barts he has handled far worse, for far less important reasons. John helps him steady Mycroft’s head against his arm. Once his brother is secure in his grasp, he leaves the room without a backward glance.

The Scotland Yard personnel inside the building give him a wide berth. He steps outside into the weak sunlight, obscured by clouds, Mycroft lying still and quiet in his arms.

He is rather glad now, of the epidural. He doesn’t think his brother could have endured this transport otherwise, and he’s not sure he would have been willing to subject Mycroft to such pain. The Belstaff draped around his brother’s frame seems a poor and inadequate cover, and he can only hope that Mycroft will not hate him after this for exposing him in such a manner.

He moves over to the ambulance and lowers his brother onto the gurney. The sheet provides more protection for Mycroft’s modesty, and John and Lestrade arrive seconds later to help him load the gurney into the ambulance. He gets Mycroft secured, then jumps in beside him. John follows. Lestrade stays, probably to finish up whatever Scotland Yard procedures are involved at the site of the crime.

Molly turns around from the driver’s seat. “You’ve got him?”

“Yes. He needs the hospital Molly, if you would.” He remembers the sensory deprivation and the way his brother reacted to the light. “No lights or sirens.” He catches the look of relief on Mycroft’s face and relaxes, knowing he has made the right decision.


	2. The Caretaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's been rescued, but now he needs someone to care for him.

The ambulance travels to the hospital, and John busies himself checking Mycroft’s vitals. Mycroft looks distressed, and he finds himself sliding one hand into Mycroft’s to provide assurance.

They pull into St. Bart’s. Someone, he suspects Lestrade, has called ahead, and there is a trauma team waiting. He and John guide the gurney to the ground, and then the medics descend.

He’s momentarily separated from his brother, and then he hears Mycroft groan. He’s back at his brother’s side in an instant, shoving aside one medic who is shining a light into Mycroft’s eyes. John catches his hint as he calls out and moves to intercept the medical team, herding them back while he focuses on Mycroft.

Mycroft is in distress, far beyond the simple matter of noise and crowds and bright lights. He’s never seen Mycroft like this, but he knows that expression, that near-panicked mindlessness. He’s seen it before. More to the point, he remembers the feeling from his days of drug addictions. That moment when life goes entirely out of control. More importantly, he knows what to do, from Mycroft’s own example.

He leans forward and plants his hands on Mycroft’s face, holding him steady. “Mycroft. Focus here on me. Focus on me. You know what to do. Come on Mycroft.”

Bleary gray-blue eyes focus on his own, and Mycroft relaxes into his grip, focusing on his face.

He continues drawing on his memories, memories of when their positions were reversed and Mycroft was the one standing over him. “Good. Listen to me. I’ll be with you the whole way.” He sees shock and a hint of disbelief in Mycroft’s face. “Stay with me, brother-mine.”

Mycroft relaxes abruptly at the familiar address, one he rarely uses but always means when he does. After a moment, the elder Holmes offers a small nod, barely discernible against his palms.

“Good.” He frees one hand, motioning to John as he grasps the side of the gurney. John has apparently explained things to the much-chastened medical team, because they’re properly subdued when they join in to help him wheel his brother inside.

He stays with Mycroft through the hours that follow, ignoring everyone who tries to send him away until John or Molly can step in and explain. His whole attention is focused on keeping up a running dialogue for Mycroft, who is barely coherent and far more inclined to panicking than he would be otherwise.

The doctors draw blood first, a difficult procedure since Mycroft’s veins have shrunk with dehydration. Then he is put through an X-ray, which reveals broken forearm bones, broken shins, and several broken bones in feet and hands. 16 broken bones total. He relays all of this to Mycroft in a calm, quiet voice, keeping his brother focused on him.

An IV is hooked up. Mycroft nearly panics at that, but he’s already checked with the doctors and he is quick to reassure his brother. “Only saline and a bit of painkiller. 2 units of morphine I believe. And liquids. You need those. Electrolytes. Nothing serious.” Mycroft takes him at his word, and provides no further resistance.

That changes when he is wheeled into the operating room. The doctors fit the mask for the sleeping gas over Mycroft’s face, and he remembers a second too late that Mycroft was dosed with nitrous oxide to facilitate his kidnapping. At the first whiff of the gas, Mycroft’s eyes go wide, panic flooding his features and sending his heart-rate through the roof.

He reaches out and touches Mycroft’s hand before his brother can begin to thrash, catching his gaze. Mycroft focuses on him with all the intensity he is capable of (not much, given his condition).

He breathes, one deep inhalation, then one slow exhalation. And again. The second time, Mycroft follows him, breathing in sync with him.

Within five breaths, Mycroft is unconscious, and the surgeons and medics go to work.

He knows that, objectively speaking, the worst injuries are the broken bones. They’ve already started setting, and unless they are properly treated and aligned, they will cripple his brother. And yet…

He watches a medic gently pull his brother’s legs apart to attend to the raw, blistered wounds that adorn inner thighs and buttocks, including the inner crease of his arse. The sight causes a wave of cold rage to sweep through him, and he thinks that Lestrade had better keep his prisoners under close guard. Otherwise, some of them might have...accidents. Something far more damaging than falling out a window multiple times.

Someone has shoved a poker up Mycroft’s arse. A poker, or a hot brand so like one as to make no difference. For all that he has often joked about Mycroft’s stiffness, he finds no humor in the reality of the wounds to his brother’s flesh. He finds an equal lack of humor in the weight loss caused by Mycroft’s enforced starvation, despite his frequent quips about Mycroft and diets.

The adrenaline is long gone by the time the medics have finished cleaning and tending his brother, but he forces himself to stay upright. He has promised he will be with Mycroft every step of the way, and so he will.

Eventually, his brother is wheeled out of the operating room and into recovery. Someone, likely his assistant or Lady Smallwood, has pulled strings for him to be given a private room. Someone else has also arranged a second bed, likely John.

John meets him there as he stumbles after his brother, takes one look at him and shoves him toward the second bed. “Sleep. Now. You’re dead on your feet.”

“Mycroft...”

“Is fine. Sleeping peacefully, all nice and doped up with painkillers. Won’t feel a thing, and won’t notice if you catch a quick kip.” John gives him a hard stare. “You promised. Into bed, now.”

He did promise, and the world is going gray in a way he’s become all too familiar with the past few days. He yields, staggers to the second bed and collapses.

He’s asleep before he can even remember to remove his shoes.

He wakes several hours later, to find the sun coming in the window and John sitting in a chair, reading. John looks up as he stirs. “Hey. Thought you might wake up around now.”

John toes a large bag from beside his chair. “Brought you a change of clothes, shaving kit and all that. There’s a shower in there.” he tilts his head to a door nearby. “Clean up, and I’ll give you an update.”

He’s only too willing to take John’s advice. Thirty minutes suffices to get the grime off. Another twenty makes him clean-shaven again. He switches into the clean clothes, then pads back into the other room. John greets him with a sandwich and a cup of tea. “Eat. Drink. Doctor’s orders.”

He does as he is told, knowing John is fully capable of withholding information until he has done so.

John watches him eat and nods in satisfaction when he finishes the meal. “Right, so. Lestrade is still working on interviewing the kidnappers. Said he’ll be by when he has something. Either way, they’re bound for a good long stint in prison for kidnapping a government official. General belief is that they’re some sort of extremist group. Well organized, but small.”

John pauses, then tilts his head at the other bed, where Mycroft slumbers. “He woke up a couple hours ago. Asked for an update on his medical status, drank some water, asked about you.”

“Expected. What did you tell him?”

“General gist of his injuries, not a lot of details. Told him he’d been missing for 10 days, and that you’d been looking for him. Told him you turned down a locked-room homicide for him. He seemed pleased about that.”

Mycroft knows how much he likes such cases. Of course he would be pleased to be ranked above them in level of importance. “And?”

“And that’s it. He dropped off again shortly after. To be expected, with the medications and all. Based on some of his blood work, he’s been suffering a bit of sleep deprivation. More than is normal for the two of you, I mean.”

That fits with the pattern he has already observed of the general abuses the kidnappers have heaped upon his brother. “Expected. What else?”

“Nothing much else to tell. You’ve slept over 12 hours, which you needed.” John hesitates. “Sherlock...your brother…you know he can’t care for himself. Not like this.” He indicates the casts on Mycroft’s arms and legs. “He’s going to need help for a good while.”

“I know. Do give me some credit, John. I’m not a complete idiot in these matters.”

“Never thought you were. Just...I’ve already checked. You’re the most available next of kin. So...what do you want to do?”

“I should think that was obvious. We will take care of him.”

John frowns. “I don’t think Baker Street is really ideal...”

“I meant at his house. Mycroft’s residence is more than spacious enough. There will be guest rooms downstairs in which he can be comfortably situated. A few modifications and it will be as close to ideal as we can achieve.”

“A few...Sherlock, you can’t just go modifying other people’s houses.”

“I’m sure Mycroft will understand. Besides, he can fix it when he has recovered. It may not be ideal, but it will serve better than the hospital, or Baker Street.” He does not point out that Mycroft’s home has far more security than either location, a thing he thinks his brother will appreciate enough to overlook any ‘adjustments’ to his abode.

“Okay then.” John breathes out a sigh. “So...how do you want to do this?”

“Simple. I shall accompany Mycroft home when he is released and stay with him. You will remain at Baker Street with your daughter. And either you or Molly will come over once a day to tend to those medical tasks I am not currently qualified to handle.”

John’s eyebrow quirks. “Just like that. You ever thought about asking if we would?”

“Pointless. We do not know that all of those involved in Mycroft’s abduction were captured. At least one individual had medical training. Therefore, only medical personnel I trust will be allowed access to my brother after he departs this facility.” He eyes John. “If your concern is the cost of travel or the infringement on your work hours, I am sure compensation can be made.”

“Fine. Fine.” John throws his hands up. He glances out the window. “Getting late. I think I’ll go home to Rosie. Let Mrs. Hudson know what’s going on.”

“Good idea.” And it is. John will feel better for time with his daughter. Mrs. Hudson will feel better for the news.

John leaves, and he occupies his time in messaging Mycroft’s assistant. He has no wish to leave his brother’s side before they leave the hospital, which means he will have to rely on her to make the arrangements at Mycroft’s home.

Fortunately, she is in agreement with his plans. She even offers to supply meals, an offer he accepts. He knows some of the things Mycroft likes, but not what his brother eats on a day to day basis. Besides, he’s rubbish in a kitchen, as John and Mrs. Hudson often point out. Or, as John has been known to say, “Sherlock, you keep body parts in the fridge and the breadbox. You once drank a cup of tea that had an eyeball in it. Seriously. You’re not allowed to make food. You’ll probably kill everyone.” A valid point. There is a reason he knows the name and menu of every takeaway restaurant within five blocks of his flat.

He finishes those texts, then sends a set to his parents, letting them know that Mycroft is safe and in recovery. He also sends a message to Sherrinford to be relayed to Eurus, in accordance with his promise to keep her informed.

He eats when a nurse forces him to. Eventually, he sleeps again. He is more worn out than he would like to admit, and he does not want to waste precious time sleeping when he leaves this place.

He wakes to the sound of harsh breathing and low moans. Mycroft. The heart-rate monitor is climbing steadily, emitting frantic beeps. He’s about to interfere when he hears a sharp gasp and the tell-tale sound of someone waking in a start.

The heart-rate monitor doesn’t settle. Instead, it begins to climb once more.

Of course. It is dark, and the casts will inhibit Mycroft’s movement. Given his recent ordeal, it is not unreasonable that such circumstances would send his normally well controlled brother into a panic.

He grabs his phone and turns on the torch-light application, hauling himself out of bed and to his brother’s side as he does so. “Mycroft?”

The light reveals his brother’s wide eyes, verging on panic. He looks one second away from a genuine anxiety attack.

He drops his phone so that the light illuminates his face, rather than shining in Mycroft’s eyes. He reaches up with one hand to mute the alarm, in case it has a triggering effect, then cups Mycroft’s face with both hands, the way he remembers Mycroft doing when he had these episodes while recovering from drug use. “Breathe.”

He goes through a calming routine (one Mycroft taught him, ironically enough). Mycroft follows his lead, and the monitors gradually subside. Mycroft’s heart rate and respiration return to normal, and the panic fades out of his eyes.

He’s tempted to go back to sleep, to try and pretend this didn’t happen. But he can’t. Not looking at Mycroft’s weary, wary expression. He sighs and settles himself in the chair between their beds. He pours a cup of water and helps Mycroft drink, then dampens a flannel and wipes the sweat from his brother’s face. That done, he sits back, trying to formulate the best course of action.

He isn’t sure, and finally decides that being straightforward is likely the best route. “Memories, I assume?”

“Yes.” There is no elaboration, but then he doesn’t need it. He has been subjected to some of the things Mycroft endured over the last week and a half, and he knows how they linger. More to the point, he knows more than he would ever care to know about what has been done to Mycroft.

He considers making a smart remark, but in the end, he speaks the truth. It’s harder than he thought it would be. “They will fade. With time. With organization, once you’ve recovered your strength. Even for us, such things pass.”

“Do they?” Mycroft’s voice is as hesitant as his own. But then, Mycroft has had less experience with this side of things. The closest the elder Holmes has come to such an ordeal, as far as he knows, was the incident at Sherrinford. He did worry about Mycroft then, especially in the rather explosive aftermath with their parents, but things had eventually resolved themselves, and he thought Mycroft’s memories had as well.

He chooses to answer the question without addressing the deeper implications. Mycroft will ask, if he really needs further clarification. “In my experience.”

Mycroft’s eyes are dark and vulnerable in the light of the phone. His mouth twists with some inner pain, and then the softly murmured question slips from his lips. “How…?”

It could mean any number of things, but he suspects he knows exactly what Mycroft wants to know.

How do you cope until the memories fade? Especially with a mind like theirs.

“Work. Company. I was rarely alone and there was much to do. Between the plot to blow up the Underground, John’s wedding and...other things.” Magnusson in particular, and he bites his tongue to avoid making that reference. He suspects Mycroft can hear him thinking of it anyway, given the expression that flashes across his brother’s face.

The expression turns to one of mortification. Mycroft’s eyes dart around the room, seeking another person. Understandable. Neither of them like being seen in their moments of weakness. He moves to reassure his brother. “John has returned home to his daughter. Molly is on call in the hospital, and knows I will call her if anything is wrong. There are officers outside, but they will not have heard anything.” He verified that himself. As well as discussing parameters of alert that the nurses would leave to him, rather than rushing in.

Mycroft relaxes. After a moment, gray-blue eyes search his face. A slight frown creases Mycroft’s brow. “You should rest.”

There’s the Mycroft he knows. Mothering even from a hospital bed. He can’t find it in himself to make a smart retort, and takes that as a sign that Mycroft is correct. If he is not up to verbal sparring, then he is clearly not yet in optimal condition. “As should you.” He rises and plugs the phone into a charging port. “I shall leave the light. Will you sleep or shall I call a nurse to bring you something?”

“No need.” And indeed, Mycroft’s eyes are already drooping, muscles relaxing into the pillows.

He nods and lays back down, settling his breathing into a meditational pattern that he knows resembles his sleeping breathing patterns. After a few minutes, Mycroft’s breathing evens out, and a quick look shows his brother deep in sleep.

Satisfied, he turns his mind to rest, and follows his brother into slumber.

The next two days are spent making arrangements. Anthea brings in Mycroft’s personal physician (he always knew big brother had one) to monitor his progress. The rest of the time is spent in setting up Mycroft’s bedroom downstairs, making sure the necessary hallways are wheelchair friendly and the kitchen is stocked. A temporary treatment table, used most often by massage therapists who make house calls, is set up for tending Mycroft’s wounds. Likewise a temporary washtub and a temporary cinema room for Mycroft’s care and amusement.

He takes a crash course in care of an invalid from Molly and John, along with more detailed directions from Mycroft’s doctor, who knows the foibles of Mycroft’s diet and his behaviors in relation to physical activity, injury, and enforced inactivity.

Surprisingly, it is only John who voices uncertainties, one evening after dinner. “Sherlock...I’m all for you helping your brother out but...you know...we could just hire a nurse.”

“Unnecessary.” He doesn’t point out the most obvious flaw in that plan, which is that Mycroft will not trust a stranger with his care. Given his recent ordeal, he has grounds for his paranoia, and a hired nurse would only be met with scorn and outright refusal to cooperate.

Besides, he wouldn’t trust a hired nurse with his brother, any more than Mycroft would.

John sighs. “Look, I didn’t want to be rude but...Sherlock, you get bored after three days without activity. And anyway, you and Mycroft...I get that you don’t hate each other, but I wasn’t exactly under the impression that you did well spending a lot of time together either.”

He stares at John, then at his brother, sleeping quietly in his hospital bed. The answer comes to his mind and springs into open air without warning. “Eighty-four.”

John blinks. “Eighty-four? Eighty-four what?”

“Eighty-four. The number of times Mycroft has sat at my bedside following a medical crisis. Usually of the drug-induced variety, though not always. Being shot comes to mind, has happened a few times. This in spite of knowing after the third repetition what my response would be. Disdain. Insults. Denial. Often hostility. And every time, he refuses to be angry with me. He leaves his work, and his office, all his comforts.”

He pauses. John opens his mouth, but he has begun, and for some reason, tiredness or a simple lack of mental brakes, or even just because John is his friend and like a brother to him, he keeps going.

“The first time...I was in a drug den near the docks. Filthy place. Couldn’t go ten feet without stepping in something horrid. The smell...all those unwashed bodies, the smoke...other things. He tracked me there. How and why I’ve no idea. He was a university student, not even twenty yet. I was not only overdosing on narcotics, I was ill. Pneumonia, I believe. He came for me. In his suit, in his fancy shoes that half the denizens of that place would have cheerfully murdered him for, with his tie and his school blazer. He was so dreadfully out of place. Like a well-bred cat in a room full of street curs. He came, he sat with me. He got a list of everything I had taken. He held me through the worst of the purging process, then took me home. Cleaned me up, let me rest. Fed me. Got me medical attention. Private of course. Spent days after I was released trying to wean me off the drugs and get me clean while still keeping up with his homework. Spent two more weeks trying to find a way to get me into rehab, or at least to a place mentally where I wouldn’t need to seek chemical recreation. Taught me about mind palaces in an effort to organize my thoughts and make them more bearable.”

He takes a deep breath. “I walked out on him three weeks later. Snuck out in the middle of the night, when he was sleeping, for once.” He pauses. “He had to come for me again a month later. The only sign I gave that I had ever listened to a word he said was the list I made for him, and the fact that I had his number in my pocket.”

John breathes out. “Jesus Sherlock.”

“It seems a prudent time to return the favor. Besides, a better opportunity for discovering Mycroft’s little secrets will never present itself.” He offers John a half smile, but from John’s expression, it looks as fake as his enthusiasm for invading Mycroft’s privacy feels.

“Right.” John exhales. “Fine. We’ll do it your way. But I’m calling for back-up if I decide you aren’t up for the task.”

“Fine.” He doesn’t intend to fail.

He makes sure he’s present when the doctor explains the situation to Mycroft. As expected, his brother takes it badly. The doctor beats a retreat, as agreed, and he steps forward. “Arrangements have already been made.”

Mycroft is snappish, a combination of pain (they’ve cut down his morphine to night-time only) and shame at his current state of helplessness. He understands, and is therefore not offended when Mycroft snaps at him. “Arrangements? And what, pray tell, has been arranged?”

He lays out the plans he has formulated, with the help of others. He is not surprised when Mycroft’s initial reaction mirrors John’s. “You? Care for an invalid? Sherlock, you cannot even spend a single day in one place without being bored.”

He smirks at his brother. “Untrue. Given proper experimental materials, I can remain in my flat for several weeks without suffering a decline in mental stimulation. And while John has forbidden most of my experiments on grounds of endangering your health, I am aware that it is your house we shall be in. An environment with which I am only passingly familiar, and have never made a dedicated exploration of. It is the perfect opportunity.”

Mycroft blinks at him. Then he relaxes minutely and smirks back, oddly enough. Or perhaps not so odd. Perhaps Mycroft finds his usual abrasiveness a comforting change. He knows he hates people tip-toeing around him after an injury. After the events in Serbia, Mycroft’s no nonsense attitude and John’s headbutt were a welcome dose of normalcy, even if John did leave him bleeding on a street corner.

Mycroft follows the smirk with a sniff. “Really Sherlock. Do you think I leave my secrets out where anyone could find them?”

He’s not going to pass up either the invitation or the opportunity to engage in their usual sibling banter. “No. But I am not just anyone. And in any case, I need not discover your secrets. I merely wish to see what makes the great Mycroft Holmes, the British Government personified, tick.”

“Good luck. You’ll need it.” Mycroft relaxes into his pillows with a smug look, an unspoken dare. He replies in kind, and the rest of the day passes in a far easier manner.

It is only as they both retire for the night that he realizes how much he himself needed the banter, the challenges and the sniping. 10 days does not sound so long, but even 10 minutes felt like an eternity when he thought he would never get to trade insults and snark with his elder brother again. He learned in Sherrinford what it felt like to fear that Mycroft would no longer be there for him to argue with and sneer at, and he has discovered that repeating the experience makes it more unpleasant, not less.

He takes comfort in the knowledge that Mycroft apparently needed it as much as he did.

Two days later, Mycroft is finally released from the hospital. He suspects that he and his brother are not the only ones relieved by that. Neither Holmes sibling could be called a model patient under the best of circumstances, and with Mycroft on edge from pain and himself in his unaccustomed role as caretaker, they’ve likely driven most of the hospital staff quite mad with frustration.

Anthea has pulled strings to get a specially designed van, made for the transport of disabled persons, assigned to Mycroft until he recovers enough to go without the wheelchair. He pulls his own strings (including asking as nicely as he is capable of) to make sure Lestrade is the driver. He is certain that Anthea or Lady Smallwood could choose a trustworthy driver, but Mycroft is in his care, and while that is true he insists that people he trusts are around his brother.

Mycroft says little as he is wheeled into the house, and to the guest room that he will inhabit while he is disabled. In fact, he is quiet for most of the day. It does nothing to diminish the strangeness of the situation.

He helps his brother into the bed in which he will spend most of his time recovering. He brings lunch and helps his brother eat, then supplies an E-book with a mouse that Mycroft can manipulate, even with the casts and his healing fingertips. A straw and a well set up tray solve the issue of Mycroft being thirsty. Later, he helps Mycroft to the loo and tries to be gentle while he physically lifts his brother onto the toilet, then helps him clean up and settles him back in the wheelchair.

That evening, he and Mycroft share dinner and he takes the liberty of wheeling his brother into the temporary cinema room they’ve set up. A quick look at Mycroft’s collection reveals his brother’s favorites (the ones that have been handled more than others) and he selects one of them to run. They watch the movie in companionable silence. It’s an old spy film, with enough drama and subtlety to appeal to Mycroft, while at the same time possessing enough action and detective work to satisfy him. He occasionally snarks at some misstep or other by the characters, but on the whole he can admit that it is a decent film.

Afterward he takes Mycroft back to his room and gives him his medicine. Then he takes his brother’s E-book and reads to him, until Mycroft’s eyes close in slumber.

He wakes later in the night, to the sound of moans coming from the monitoring device he has set up. The receiver is in Mycroft’s room to alert him to any emergencies or needs his brother might have while he is in another part of the house.

The moans give way to short, gasping cries, then cut off with a sharp gasp and heavy breathing. It is only then that he rises from his bed and belts on his dressing gown before padding down the hall to see to his brother.

He knows John would likely chide him for not going as soon as he realized Mycroft was having a nightmare, but he has his reasons. Mycroft’s pride is a touchy thing and his brother has never, as far as he knows, been reduced to this state of helplessness. If Mycroft has suffered nightmares before (likely given his elder brother’s protectiveness and his own recklessness), he has never before had someone to witness his mental anguish, or his midnight torments.

He knows Mycroft well enough to know that his brother will be ashamed of his weakness, his vulnerability. Ashamed to have anyone witness to the private spectacle of what happens when his mind is unguarded, his barriers down.

Mycroft will undoubtedly know that he has a listening device in the room. But the delay will allow them both to pretend his presence is the result of a routine check-in. It will give Mycroft a much needed illusion of privacy. A small thing, but necessary in the long run for preserving what remains of his brother’s dignity.

He stays until Mycroft is once more calm and drowsing, then returns to his own bed. He manages a fitful doze, but rest is difficult while keeping one ear out for any further distress from his brother’s room. Still, what he gets is enough to see him through the next day.

He wakes early enough to prepare a simple breakfast (even he can’t ruin toast and tea) and feed the both of them before he goes to allow John into the house. Normally he would not eat, but it is easier to get Mycroft to eat when he eats as well, and it is a simple enough compromise to make. No doubt Mrs. Hudson would be delighted if she knew. He would tell her, but there is a reasonable chance that she would start plotting further ways to incapacitate Mycroft to get him to eat. This is the woman who knocked him out and kidnapped him from his own flat once, after all.

John arrives, and they go through the difficult and delicate process of maneuvering Mycroft into the bathroom to be bathed and have his wounds salved. He allows John to remove Mycroft’s clothing and bandages, part of his job as a doctor, but after Mycroft has been transferred to the temporary tub (shallower than normal, with hastily constructed arm and leg rests) he takes over. Mycroft is visibly embarrassed by the situation, but does not flinch when he applies the wash rag and soap to his battered body. Not even when he applies gentle pressure to tip Mycroft’s head back and wash his hair. Nor does he complain after he is removed from the tub and dried off. In fact, Mycroft is remarkably calm about the whole thing until he is moved to the treatment table.

He does not miss the way Mycroft flinches when he is laid out. Out of deference to his ordeal, they chose a flat table, rather than a reclining or chair-like treatment surface. Still Mycroft cringes when he is laid down, humiliation tightening his features. Part of that is no doubt due to his state of nudity, an unfortunate necessity with the state of his body.

It is not shame over his nakedness, however, that increases Mycroft’s apparent misery with every touch of John’s hands. He is sure of that. However, it isn’t until he tracks the path of John’s progress with his eyes and registers the area John is approaching that he realizes the problem. He knows he’ll blame his slowness on the unaccustomed effect of breakfast on his processing power later, but that is an issue for another time.

He registers the wounds John is occupied with tending (Mycroft’s abdomen), and the next area of treatment, and realization hits him like a shot. He curses himself for not having thought of it before.

Mycroft’s hips, groin and arse sport several wounds. He himself would not care if John saw and treated such wounds on his own person. He has never been overly modest, physically or mentally, and he considers John a brother in all but blood anyway.

But Mycroft is not he. Mycroft has always been somewhat body-shy, a legacy of his years as a pudgy adolescent. And Mycroft and John have never had the same relationship that he and John do. John rarely finds Mycroft anything more than tolerable. Most times they exist in a sort of wary truce with each other, a truce held together in their shared commitment to his safety and mental health. He can name at least three separate occasions where John and Mycroft were practically at each others throats.

Not a relationship conducive to allowing John to see him vulnerable like this. And John, to the best of his knowledge, hasn’t seen the worst of the wounds to Mycroft’s arse, like the burn between his buttocks. He would know about them, being a doctor in charge of Mycroft’s care, but he hasn’t yet seen them. And knowing intellectually is far different than visual confirmation and first-hand observation. The reactions are different too.

He’s reaching out to catch John’s hand even before his brain finishes reaching that conclusion. John looks up at him in confusion. He tilts his head toward Mycroft’s expression, eyes closed and face lined with anguish and shame, then toward Mycroft’s hip area, trying to convey his message without words.

Fortunately, John is an expert in Holmes silent dialogue. At least, this kind. The doctor catches on at once, and is quick to release the ointment that he’s taken hold of. He even, bless his practical soul, tilts his head in a silent question. One nod, and John finds himself something to do with the bandages by the sink, giving both brothers some much needed privacy for this.

A moment to steel himself, and then he scoops his hand through the salve and applies it to the uppermost of the burns on Mycroft’s hip. He is as gentle as he can be, and considering the delicacy he has developed with his experiments and some of his casework, that is gentle indeed. Mycroft still flinches, and he knows that his brother has recognized the difference between his touch and John’s. But Mycroft is silent, so he says nothing.

There is little awkwardness in tending the injuries to Mycroft’s hips and waist. The same proves true for tending the injuries to his thighs. These are wounds that can be cared for without invading Mycroft’s privacy overmuch.

Treating the wounds on Mycroft’s arse is different. He all too aware of the remarks he might have made, had this happened one or two years ago. He suspects Mycroft is thinking of the same thing.

The effort it takes to reach out and tug his brother’s knees apart to apply ointment to the burn in the cleft of his arse has nothing to do with actual physical difficulty, nor with any sort of squeamishness. Mycroft’s expression twists, his emotions as unguarded as his body and shame naked in every line of his face and shoulders and neck. The elder Holmes offers no resistance to his touch, and somehow, that almost makes it worse. He is as quick and careful as he can be, and it is with relief that he eases Mycroft back into resting position.

He steps around to tend to his brother’s groin and upper thighs, and finds Mycroft watching him with exhausted eyes, a bit of surprise glittering deep within the blue-gray orbs. But Mycroft says nothing, and so he says nothing as well. It is easier that way.

He finishes tending those wounds and passes the ointment back to John, accepting a handful of bandages in return. He applies them where they are needed, then grabs a towel and drapes it over Mycroft’s hips, covering his pelvic area.

Mycroft relaxes almost instantly, and much of the distressed tension leaves his face and his body. The rest of the treatment goes smoothly, and then John leaves him to get Mycroft dressed. A difficult task, but not impossible.

Both of them breathe easier when Mycroft is appropriately covered. True, the elder Holmes is far from his usual impeccable and imposing self, but clothes are a huge improvement. Even pajamas and a robe are a sort of armor in this situation.

Anthea arrives shortly after he finishes settling Mycroft back in bed. She brings lunch, a work laptop, and a case full of files and reports. He leaves the two of them to their work and spends his time browsing Mycroft’s book collection (extensive and eclectic, not to mention in multiple languages), his music collection (mostly classical, they are alike in this), and his film collection (older movies mostly, but a scattering of more recent ones that he suspects are Mycroft’s attempt at keeping up with current trends). He notes his brother’s favorites in each category, unearths a rarely used chess set, and makes plans for dinner. In between he goes and checks on the two government officials.

Mycroft looks much more relaxed and content with work to do, even if he can’t do any of the typing or writing. Anthea is apparently a dab hand at forging his signature when needed, and Mycroft is a born dictator. Even in a bed-robe and casts he manages to look commanding, the epitome of the British Government, even if he can’t get himself to the bathroom without help.

It’s on his fourth or fifth check-in that he sees the signs of Mycroft flagging. A check of the time indicates his painkillers will be wearing off, and his energy levels will be low. He lets himself into the room and gives Anthea a look. She nods and, just as planned, finishes up the current document, packs her things, and gives Mycroft a polite farewell and a promise to return. Then she’s gone and Mycroft allows himself to sag a little deeper into the pillows. His government ‘Ice Man’ persona fades, replaced with a man who is both tired and sore.

He helps his brother take care of necessary issues, then gives him more medicine and leaves him to rest. That Mycroft surrenders without complaint tells him how weary his brother truly is.

That night they play chess instead of watching a film. He knows he, and probably Mycroft, would get bored with too much routine, so varying their nightly activities is a must.

So they play chess. Or rather, he plays chess, with Mycroft dictating the moves of the black half of the board. Eventually Mycroft wins, but it’s a closer game than normal. The second game ends in a draw, and by that time Mycroft looks exhausted again.

The mental exercise of work and chess must do some good, because neither he or Mycroft are disturbed by nightmares that night.

Something, however, is clearly distracting his brother the next day. His responses are off during the morning treatment. He focuses for work, but the distraction is back that evening. They watch another movie that night, a more modern one, but Mycroft spends more time staring at him or into space than he does watching the film.

Whatever is on his brother’s mind, he is not surprised when he jerks from his thoughts just after midnight to the sounds of another nightmare tormenting Mycroft’s unguarded mind. He waits for the gasp of waking, then walks to his brother’s room to offer comfort and companionship again.

Mycroft settles, but is still pensive. He considers asking, but Mycroft is not one to welcome questions about his private thoughts, and at this point in time he is reluctant to cause his brother undue stress.

As it turns out, he needn’t have worried. He is halfway to the door, intending to allow his brother to get what rest he can, when Mycroft calls his name.

He turns and sees anxiety and apprehension on Mycroft’s face. It’s enough to bring him back to sit in the chair he just vacated. “Something you need?”

“I...” Mycroft trails off, looking uncertain. But something in his expression, or perhaps just the combination of the late hour and the medication coaxes his brother to continue. “You have been very patient. I confess, I had not expected...” He trails off again, clearly torn between voicing his thoughts and possibly offending his brother and caretaker.

It’s all right. He knows what Mycroft is thinking. He lets his expression slip into a smirk. “Expected me to stay? To look after you?”

“Yes. It is most unusual for you.”

It isn’t really. He’s stayed for John. For Molly to some degree. For Eurus to some degree. He would for Lestrade if Lestrade needed it. But he can understand why Mycroft is surprised by it.

He’s been expecting this. That doesn’t make it any easier. He thought explaining to John would be good practice, but he is once again faced with the fact that John and his brother are very different people. And his relationship to Mycroft is very different from his relationship to John.

He paces a moment, then returns to his seat. “There are many answers I could give you.”

“Do tell.” Mycroft is all patience and exhaustion rolled into one, a desperate need to know shining in his tired eyes.

The easiest reason first. Perhaps it will make the rest of it simpler to say. He’s been known to ramble on when he gets going. It could happen now, though it doesn’t usually with Mycroft.

Then again, he isn’t usually in Mycroft’s sickroom after midnight, trying to be open with his older brother.

The easiest reason first. “It would not be a lie, to say that it is something of an experiment. I have rarely had good cause to practice patience. Yet I am aware that the skill is invaluable, both in the pursuit of my chosen career and in matters of domestic harmony.”

“Indeed.” Such a small, simple word, but Mycroft’s tone carries a wealth of complex meanings. Clearest are disappointment and resignation. But also acceptance and old grief. It is no difficulty to deduce that his brother is remembering other ‘experiments’ and resigning himself to their old patterns of behavior.

And that is enough. Enough to coax the rest of his thoughts into coherent words that tumble from his mouth with measured slowness. “Experiment. It is not a lie. And yet...You have seen me through many of the worst times of my life. Many times when my...indulgences...put my life, and more importantly, my mind, at risk. I have not always approved of or appreciated your methods, but I cannot deny that without you, I should be a dead or drooling wreck lost in an alley or a drug den or some such equally foul place. And, you have been there when my work has led me into danger, of both life and sanity, as with Moriarty.”

He fought for a long time to ignore this truth. But it is still truth. No matter how he tries to convince himself that he would have been able to control his habits, he knows better. Ho many times has he slipped? Obviously his control is nowhere near as good as he’d like to pretend. It doesn’t matter what excuses he gives. For John, for a case, for Mary...give him a reason and he’ll return to his bad habits. Without the support network he has now (including Wiggins, who will supply him, but also blacklist him if necessary) he’d never survive. And without Mycroft, he wouldn’t have lived long enough to build the support he has now.

And Mycroft was the one to provide the resources to track Moriarty’s network. Mycroft was the one to bring him home and help him get back into Baker Street. Mycroft was the one to get him out of trouble when he killed Magnusson. Mycroft was the one willing to sacrifice himself to prevent him from having to kill John. Was willing to make him hate him to make it easier. Was willing to die alone and friendless and loathed by his own brother in order to save him.

He holds the memories close as he continues. “I have never truly thanked you. Never responded in kind. In fact, I have often repaid your care with harsh words and insults, sometimes even violence. However, our sister made me realize...”

He coughs, realizing it wasn’t just Eurus. It was Eurus and John, the incidents with the governor and Molly, and Mycroft himself, that forced the realization he came to at Sherrinford. “Before Sherrinford, I was angry at the secrets you kept. But watching you, going through the trials Eurus inflicted on us...I did not enjoy your suffering. Nor, when she asked me to choose, did I wish your death. As you did not enjoy nor wish mine. It has caused me to re-evaluate certain things. As Moriarty and my mock-death forced me to reconsider.”

Such a simple way of explaining the complexity of the thing. Such an easy way of talking about a memory that lives in his own nightmares as much as he suspects it does in Mycroft’s.

He remembers watching Mycroft throw up at the death of the governor, and flinch at the deaths of the Garridebs. He remembers the sick feeling in his gut, in his heart, as Mycroft tried to manipulate him into choosing his own brother to die. The realization that he would rather die himself than put a bullet into that proud, pale figure standing before him, pretending to embrace his own death.

He remembers Mycroft helping him plan his own fall, and the devastation in his brother’s eyes at the betrayal he was forced to commit for the good of the country, the anguish reflected in Mycroft’s stoicism as his reputation was torn to shreds. The relief when his brother dragged him from the Serbian prison and put him on a plane home.

There are other moments, other memories, but it would take longer than a night to go through them all, even in his own mind. And it’s not what he wants.

He doesn’t want memories. He wants words, words to convey to his brother how much he cares for him, how he can finally admit he loves him. But such words are not easy to come by. He searches for them as he continues. “I do not know if you and I...what state our relationship will take. But I do know...”

He can’t be open with his declaration. It’s not him, and it’s not Mycroft. But what can he say?

“You’re not an idiot.” Won’t do. That is what he says to Lestrade, and it is wholly unsuited to Mycroft.

“You count.” Those words are for Molly. And Mycroft would know that. Would scoff at that.

“I’d be lost without my blogger.” He could substitute ‘brother’ for ‘blogger’ but Mycroft would still know it is his favorite phrase to reassure John of his value to him. And while he has called John family, another brother, he does not wish to mix the two. Mycroft deserves words just for him, a pledge that belongs only to him.

He’s a genius. This shouldn’t be so hard. But then, sentiment is a difficult thing for them.

But the memories prove useful after all. Because from them emerges something he can use. A shining memory, a phrase that will convey everything he wants. He should have known. He has been following Mycroft’s lead this whole time, and it is Mycroft’s lead he follows as he stands once more.

He moves to the bedside, then reaches out. He lets his hand touch Mycroft’s face, the way he did when Mycroft needed calming in the hospital. But this isn’t the same, and he ends with placing his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders instead.

He holds his brother’s gaze, trying to force everything he’s feeling, everything he wants to say and can’t into his his eyes as he speaks. “I am not you Mycroft. But I...” He takes a deep breath, feeling much like he did right before he jumped from St. Barts roof. But like that leap, this one must be taken for someone he loves, and so he goes on. “I am not angry with you, Mycroft, for anything. And I will always be there for you, to the best of my ability.”

Mycroft’s oath, returned to his elder brother in his own words, and as binding as Mycroft has ever considered his own vow.

Mycroft has spoken this vow to him a hundred times. When he was high, when he was puking, when he was sobbing with pain and raging against the world. When he was raving and hallucinating, when he returned the words with a cruel comment and crueler actions.

Two or three years ago, he would have sneered. Even a year ago, he’s not sure that he would have thought to return the promise his brother has always given him. And yet now, it feels right. It is right, he knows it, the same way he knows when he’s on the correct trail in a case.

He sees the realization in Mycroft’s eyes, hears it in the soft, wondering exhalation of his breath. Feels it in the sudden relaxation of the shoulders beneath his hands. Mycroft understands what he is saying, what he means. What the promise is meant to convey.

Mycroft understands that this is a pledge between the two of them, words as real as anything he has ever said to Molly or Lestrade, or John. A commitment as deep as ‘I love you’ would be between normal people.

It takes Mycroft a moment to form a response. “Why?”

It’s not an unexpected question. But neither is it one he can answer directly. A direct answer will take them into territory that neither of them can handle right now. An overload of sentiment and feelings. Fortunately, he has an indirect answer ready. Another memory of reversed positions, when Mycroft said something surprising to him.

He smiles at his brother. “There’s nothing in the punch here Mycroft. I’m not going to answer that.”

He sees the moment Mycroft sorts out the reference. Warmth fills his brother’s usually stoic expression, lighting his face and making him look ten years younger. He looks, suddenly, the age he should look, unworn by the stresses of his position and his family. Even exhausted and in pain, the transformation is there, and astonishing.

He makes a note to try and cause it more often. If only to see John’s face if he can catch a picture or cause that reaction in the doctor’s presence.

Then Mycroft smiles back. “Nothing in yours. I cannot say the same.”

The banter is familiar. The easy warmth in it is not. But he’s more than willing to respond in kind. “True. But John would kill me if I got into your medicine. And Molly would hit me again. And then Lestrade wouldn’t allow me to do anything interesting for a year. It would be so dreadfully dull.”

Mycroft releases a breathy sound that might be a laugh. “How terrible for you, enforced sobriety by friends.”

He snickers back. “How nice for you, enforced drugs.”

“And boredom.” Mycroft makes a face at the bed. He recognizes the expression as one of his own, and if he ever doubted their blood relationship, he doesn’t now. Not that he did, given their respective deductive powers and their mother. “I cannot say I will enjoy another five-and-a-half weeks of this.”

He would go mad if he were confined that long. But Mycroft thrives more on mental stimulation than physical. He tips his head in consideration. “True. Though as lazy as you are...”

He cuts off as Mycroft sends an exasperated look in his direction. “I have my limits, Sherlock. And enforced inactivity is never as satisfying as otherwise.”

That is very true as well. He can’t stand being bored, but he also has days where he doesn’t even feel like leaving the bed, let alone his flat. Witness the time he showed up at Buckingham Palace in a sheet because he was too lazy to dress.

“Point.” He studies Mycroft’s eyes. “You’re recovering.” He smiles, but even he can tell there is no sharpness to his smile, no edge of mockery or teasing. “That is good. You’ll be able to suppress the nightmares soon.” The knowledge that his brother will no longer suffer these torments, these repeating memories of suffering and humiliation, is a relief.

It is also a bit distressing. It means no more late night conversations. No more reasons to show Mycroft genuine affection. Once he would have reveled in the freedom from such things, but their relationship has changed enough that he no longer feels that way.

Perhaps Mycroft reads his thoughts in his face. Or perhaps it is something else. Whatever the reason, his brother clears his throat. “Even so, I would not be adverse to company in the evenings. It would probably be for the best to begin to reestablish my schedule and habits as much as my injuries will allow.”

It’s an excuse and he knows it. That does nothing to alter the warmth that builds in his chest. “Mmmm.” He offers a vague agreement, then notices Mycroft’s drooping eyes. “We’ll discuss it in the morning. For now, you should rest.”

Mycroft lets him go, and by the time he returns to his room, his brother’s breathing is already evening out. It doesn’t take long for Mycroft’s respiration to reach the slow, steady pattern of sleep.

He drifts off some time later, still wondering if his words helped at all.

The next morning starts out the same as the previous two. He makes breakfast and takes it to his brother, and they both eat. Mycroft seems better rested than his midnight waking would usually allow, but he can’t place his finger on why. It isn’t until John comes over and they begin their ritual of bathing and treatment that he gets his answer.

Mycroft is...cooperative might be the most appropriate word, but it isn’t quite right. He lets them manipulate his body with a minimum of tension, allows himself to fall into the bath water with what, for him, is a nearly heedless ease, even tips his head back of his own volition for his hair to be washed and his stubble to be shaved.

It’s when they transfer Mycroft to the treatment table that he realizes what has changed.

Mycroft isn’t being cooperative. Not precisely. What he is, is _relaxed_.

Completely relaxed, to the point of something almost like surrender. No stress, no hesitation, mars the lines of his face. No fear. No anguish or shame as they begin tending to his injuries.

No humiliation at lying open and exposed in front of them, not even in front of John. Even the expected tension when he moves to tend the wounds in Mycroft’s most delicate area is missing.

He catches his brother’s eyes as he finishes putting on the salve, and what he sees there almost stops him in his tracks. The only thing that keeps him moving is the deep wish not to call John’s attention to what he has realized. It would only make Mycroft falter, perhaps change his mind.

This isn’t cooperation. It’s trust.

Mycroft is trusting them. Trusting them not to hurt him, not to shame him, not to mock him or cause him any unnecessary discomfort.

Mycroft has trusted them with secrets, with cases, with each other. But this is different, and far more personal.

This is Mycroft, the Ice Man, the eternal loner, trusting them to care for him. Allowing himself to be cared for and protected and helped. Antarctica relinquishing his cold exterior.

He never thought he’d have this. Not after all that has passed between them. The hurt, the angry words. The cold dismissals and sometimes lies. The betrayals. He never thought he’d have this.

It took Sherrinford to make him realize how precious, how important, Mycroft is to him. It took the kidnapping to make him realize how far he would go to find his brother. To rescue him.

He never realized how much he wanted – needed – to save his brother. Not until now, when he realizes that he has saved far more than his brother’s physical well-being.

He never realized how much he wanted to save Mycroft’s heart until now, when he’s holding it in his hands, trusted to defend it.

Now he knows.

He went to hell to save John, almost literally.

He’ll do as much again and more for Mycroft.

Because there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to save his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, brotherly bonding and fluff and feels.

**Author's Note:**

> Because Sherlock wanted to tell the story in his own way.


End file.
